‘But why…why would he do this?’ He got up again and said out loud, ‘We just got married, for Christ’s sake.’
Steve was very confused; he wasn’t too sure whether to be angry, bitter or devastated. He sat in the chair and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.. He dialed Nigel’s number and it went to answer phone straight away. He waited and after the tone, said,
‘Nigel, it’s Steve. Can you call me? Perhaps we can work something out. Please get in touch.’
He thought he sounded a bit desperate and felt embarrassed, considering it was Nigel that had done the dirty.
Steve sat in the kitchen chair, his head was swimming. He got up and went for the cheap supermarket brandy in the cupboard. He poured himself a very large one and sat down again. He took a swig and winced as the brandy found its way. He looked at the letter again. He didn’t read it this time, just stared at the printed type, still in disbelief.
Steve took another swig and tried to think where it had all gone wrong. What had been the telltale signs - the times when Nigel went out for an evening without him? Was he really visiting his mother? Was it the golf? Nigel hadn’t been exactly a golf widow, and he’d never moaned when he went to play the odd round on Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings. Was the boyfriend waiting around the corner, watching him drive away? Steve racked his brains.
He took another swig. The brandy was beginning to numb the shock. He took the letter and slowly folded it, then picked up the envelope and slipped it in. He tapped it on his nose as he was thinking. He closed his eyes and took another sip of brandy. Should he just sit here and get drunk? Deal with all this in the morning - in the cold light of day? He felt sleepy, exhausted from it all. With his eyes shut he still tried to think, but there was something nagging. Something he’d been reminded of. Steve opened his eyes. He looked at the torn envelope then smelt it. There was no mistake - the sickly smell of mint sweets.
Steve remembered the card she’d brought round. Had Nigel confided in Mavis? Got her to do the letter, his dirty work? How could he, a mere neighbour. For the first time, Steve felt angry and betrayed. Not the fact that Nigel had run off with a new boyfriend, but that he hadn’t had the guts to write his own fucking letter. He finished the brandy in one gulp then smashed the glass against the far wall. Steve was now in a nasty mood. He screwed the letter up into a ball and headed for Mavis’s front door.
As Steve marched up Mavis’s path, he glanced at his watch. It was half past nine, unlikely that she and Ted had gone to bed yet. It was a warm evening with a little summer light. Steve was ready to hammer on the large circular knocker, when he noticed the door was slightly open. He pushed it a little and called out to Mavis. There was no answer. He stopped himself from going in. Steve wasn’t prepared to have a nose to nose confrontation with Ted and be accused of trespassing, so this time he rapped sharply with the knocker. Still no answer.
Steve moved slowly into the hallway and got to the stairs. He could hear raised voices above. Steve shouted up,
‘Hello, anybody there?’ He listened, the voices continued. Then he thought it could be a television or a radio. Steve put one foot on the stairs ready to go up then thought twice about it. He moved slowly ahead into the kitchen. In the diffused fluorescent lighting, Steve thought something had been spilled. As he got nearer he could see a broken mixing bowl and a red mess over the floor. He crouched down and dipped his finger, then sniffed it. The smell of blood filled his senses. Somehow, the immediate anger of Nigel’s letter and Mavis’s involvement began to fade. Fear was now leaching into his brain.
Steve studied the mess, should he phone the police? He reached for his mobile, then paused. Could there be a logical excuse? The broken bowl; whoever it was had cut themselves badly picking up the pieces? There was a lot of blood. The thought of police at the front door with an astonished Mavis looking at him with a bandaged hand and Ted growling over her shoulder, made him put his mobile back.
Steve made his way into the lounge. He looked around, the furniture and wallpaper were old and dated, seventies style. There were even three ducks on the wall above a sofa with wooden arms. Steve smiled slightly, a little relieved it looked normal: nothing upset or damaged.
He moved out into the hall and reached the stairs again. Steve called once more. The raised voices above continued.
Gripping the bannister rail, he slowly made his way up, step by step until he reached the landing. Now he could clearly hear the arguing. It was coming from the second bedroom on the left. The door was half open and the light spilled out onto the landing carpet. As Steve approached he caught a strong musty smell and could clearly hear Ted’s voice. He was ranting and raving about something. Steve looked through the gap in the door.
Ted was standing by the side of someone in a wheelchair. A portable television on low volume sat on a chest of drawers. From the back, it looked like an elderly lady with a shawl and a scarf over her head. Ted was in full flow,
‘Listen, you old bag, I keep telling you, me and Mavis will lead our own lives. We don’t need you interfering. If you stick your nose in anymore, I’ll send you back to the home. I didn’t want you here in the first place; she was the one that persuaded me. Like mother, like daughter for fuck sake. Nag - nag - nag, that’s all I get from the pair of you.’ With that he stormed out and nearly collided with Steve. ‘What the fuck? What you doing here, queer boy? What you doing in my house?’ he said in astonishment.
‘I…I wanted to speak to Mavis about something,’ Steve spluttered. ‘Your front door was open so I called out, but nobody answered.’
‘So what you doing up here, ginger beer?’ Ted said with a smirk. ‘Thought you and faggot-two would be stuck-up each other, now you’ve made it legal.’
Steve ignored the remark.
‘Look, I don’t want an argument; I just want to speak to Mavis about something personal, OK.’
‘Sure - sure, anything you say, Dorothy, I’ll just go and get her.’ Ted walked over to the bathroom door and knocked on it sharply. ‘Mavis, how much longer are you going to be in there? It’s only a small cut, for fuck sake. That’ll teach you to chop onions and be pissed at the same time.’ He waited then shouted through, ‘Your gay friend next door is up here; he wants a word with you.’ Ted pointed to the bedroom, ‘Wait in there, Dorothy, she’ll be out in a minute. I’m going downstairs to make a cup of tea.’
Steve watched Ted disappear down the stairs. When it was all clear, he gingerly knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Mavis, it’s Steve. You OK?’ With no answer, he said, ‘I’ll be in the bedroom. I just want to talk about Nigel.’
Still no answer.
Steve made his way to the bedroom with the old lady. He pushed open the door. As he approached he thought this was going to be a bit embarrassing, introducing himself. Unless she was stone deaf, she must have heard everything outside. Steve paused just behind her and got ready with a friendly smile. Then he moved round in front to say hello.
What Steve saw made him flinch back and cup his mouth. The skeleton of a woman stared at him with empty eye sockets. Patches of dead skin remained on her face like dried leather. Some coarse hair spilled out from underneath the head scarf while her teeth protruded in a snarl. The bones of her hands and fingers were clutched together and sat in her aproned lap. Steve had seen enough, he wanted to get out, get anywhere. He turned and moved quickly to the door. As he poked his head out, WHAM! he felt a tremendous pain with coloured lights, then blackness.
*
Wherever he was it was extremely cold and dark. It made him come to very quickly. Something was stuffed in his mouth and he could feel tape stuck against his cheeks. Steve’s head throbbed with pain as if someone was trying to crush it in a cider press. He couldn’t move. His hands were tied behind his back and the bindings were cutting into his wrists. The feet were the same. He could hear an intermittent low hum, like a motor that was cutting in and cutting out from time to time.
Steve tri
ed to move his head in the blackness. He could feel things next to him as he wriggled. Steve strained but everything seemed to be tighter after he relaxed. The gag was suffocating. He turned his head and scraped his face against something. Instantly some of the tape loosened. Probably the cold was making the gag come unstuck. And he was getting unbelievably cold.
His fingers, toes and nose were frozen, they ached with pain. He tentatively poked his chin out and felt the same course surface. Steve rubbed his face against whatever it was. The gag was loosening. He laid back and tried to push it out with his tongue. One more go should do it. He pushed his face hard this time and the tape with the gag scraped away. His lips were free and in that instant they became stuck. Steve tried to pull his face away but his lips had frozen on to something, they just stretched as he moved. The coldness was excruciating. He moaned and tried to lick his lips, a natural reflex, and then as if it couldn’t get any worse. His tongue became stuck. Steve was whining, trying to pull away, when suddenly the brightness made him blink.
For the first time Steve could see just a nose and a pair of brown eyes right up against his face. He’d become stuck in a kissing position. Steve wriggled and strained his eyes upwards. He could see he was in some sort of container. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Mavis. She was holding the lid up. Thank God, it was Mavis. Steve wriggled excitedly. She’d know what to do. Pour some warm water over his face. Please God, do it quickly before Ted comes in.
Mavis smiled at Steve and said, ‘Ahh, that’s sweet, you two love birds. It’s so nice when you see couples that fond of each other. Inseparable, stuck to each other like glue.’ Mavis looked at Steve and Nigel in such a loving way. Steve wriggled again and moaned excitedly, trying to instill some urgency into the situation.
Then Mavis’s face changed.
‘Well, Dorothy, you got what you wanted, married faggot-two, even sealed it with a kiss.’ With a hysterical laugh he removed the wig and false nose, then smeared off his makeup, ‘Surprise.’ Ted gave him an inane grin.
Steve couldn’t move, he was stuck fast and now utterly confused.
Ted took out from his apron pocket a packet of mint imperials. He popped one in his mouth then offered the packet. ‘On second thoughts, Dorothy, I don’t suppose you could manage one of these.’ Ted doubled over, laughing so much, his chubby face getting redder. He took out a little hanky from the sleeve of his blouse and dabbed his eyes. ‘Well, I’d like to chat more, gay boys, but there’s late night cricket on the box, and I’ve got to give Gran her cocoa, or the old bag will moan something rotten. Bye for now.’
Steve wriggled and whined as the lid of the freezer came down. The blackness had returned and with it the hum of the motor, cutting in then cutting out.
*
The butcher’s van backed its way into the garage. He got out and made his way to the chest freezer at the far end. He lifted the lid and smiled. Using gloves and his meat cleaver to separate them, he hauled out the two frozen carcasses. Then, like a Smithfield meat porter, he carried them one by one on his back to his van. He closed the back doors and hung on to the handle to get his breath. After a minute, he climbed in and pulled away a little. He stopped and got out. One last look to make sure everything was back in place, and then he closed the up and over door.
Next morning, he took the usual tea and toast up to Gran; Mavis, the lazy cow wasn’t going to bother, she was still asleep. Mind you, Mavis was beginning to smell a bit again, not surprising; it had been six years now. He’d stuffed her with sawdust first, then sewn her up. After that he’d tried horsehair. Best thing would be to get her out of bed and prop her up somewhere to get some airing, out of sight of course.
Ted got into his whites, then the overcoat on top. With his stick he hobbled to the car. He always kept his cricket bag in the boot. Tuesday morning it was the usual net practice with the club veterans. Then, he’d have to get a move on and open up.
All his regulars along the Broadway knew Brookfield’s the butchers opened late that day; the sign in the window said so. Taking over the shop six years ago after Mavis’s brother disappeared without a word, the existing customers, mostly Asian, African and Caribbean had stayed loyal to him.
He loved them all in his funny little way. Ted knew under his brittle exterior he was really just a big softie at heart.
As he drove, he sucked on his last mint imperial from the bag on the dashboard and mentally counted the orders he had to prepare for delivery. Five pork chops and a pound of sausages for Mrs. Gomez in Clapham. A leg of lamb for number 17 Tooting Crescent. The free range chicken and two dozen eggs at 91 Haydons Road,Wimbledon. Four lamb chops and five chicken legs with a pound of liver for Mrs. Muboko in Colliers Wood. Then there was the marinated pork and chicken pieces for the Jamaican birthday barbeque this coming Saturday in Streatham.
Must remember to stock up with banana leaves, he thought. Oh! And some more mint imperials.
The Letter
Moira picked up the letter from the doormat. The envelope revealed a number of faded, crossed-out addresses, some redirected, including mail stickers in foreign languages. There was no name; only Moira’s address was clearly visible. Someone passing it on had written in block capitals with a felt tip pen.
She carefully slit open the envelope. It had an Australian stamp. The letter began,
Dear Twigs.
Moira sat down slowly, staring at the date at the top of the page, 1975, in clear handwriting. There was no mistake, the letter had been written seventeen years ago. She took a sip of coffee. The smell of bacon still lingered from the morning breakfast that she and her husband had shared earlier. Geoffrey had gone on his morning jog to get the newspapers. Now in April, he was still keeping up his 1992 New Year keep-fit resolution.
Geoffrey and Moira were in their late thirties and each had been married before, neither having any children from previous relationships. They could have been mistaken for brother and sister, both being five feet, nine and sharing lean looks and dark brown hair. While Moira wore hers long with flick-ups, Gerald had a little rear bald patch.
They’d lived in their six-bedroom house since early last year, just after they met and got married following a short whirlwind romance.
*
It was Geoffrey who persuaded Moira they should buy the property because of its ideal location, backing on to Nonsuch Park. He’d always lived in the area and fallen in love with the house. Geoffrey had convinced Moira it was a sound investment and that it oozed success. After ten years, he was now a senior partner, so it complimented his status.
The road was situated within a private gated estate, very upper-middle-class with the right sort of cars in the driveways. Aston Martins, Bentley Continentals, even the odd Rolls could be seen, symbols of success, preening themselves with their walnut and leather interiors.
Now aged 38, Geoffrey felt he had worked hard to get where he was. Moira, after fifteen years in nursing, had given up work. He’d wanted her to. He had firm views on that. She was an executive’s wife. His salary comfortably cushioned the loss of a second income, and it gave him pleasure that she socialised with other wives of her financial standing.
They had a housekeeper and a gardener. So Moira’s days were filled with the social whirl of the health club, bridge in the afternoon, ladies four at golf, manicures and hairdressers, the odd lunch with the girls at the Royal Automobile Club, and of course her favourite pastime, which was oil painting. She had even had a bedroom upstairs converted to a studio.
As Moira loved to paint, so Geoffrey loved his wild life. Their recent holidays had been spent on Safari. Home movies of Kruger National Park filled the drawing room sideboard while two huge elephant tusks, mounted on a thick mahogany base, stood proudly in their large hall next to a leopard skin rug. Moira never stepped on the rug. She felt it would demean such a proud animal - her opinion being, it would have looked better on the original owner than on their expensive marble flooring.
It congratulated a person called Twigs for winning the poem competition. The letter referred to the 1975 Ewell College prize giving ceremony and the book tokens Twigs had won on coming first. Near the end of the first page, the writer had highlighted by reading the poem, she had worked out when where it was hidden in her bedroom, She had sussed it from the poem’s last six lines.
The last sentence began,
You clever girl, Twigs, I bet you’ve hidden it in…
Moira continued to the next page, but it didn’t make sense. Then she realised it was page three, the last page. At the bottom, it was signed,
Regards Jennifer
Moira looked again in the envelope but found nothing. Page two was missing; perhaps left out by mistake on its re-directed journey around the world.
Obviously, many hands had tampered with the envelope over the years. Young hands, old hands, forgetful hands. But what was hidden? She thought. What did it mean? Moira glanced at the sound of the front door opening.
'It’s only me! I got you a Woman’s Own magazine.' Geoffrey came into the kitchen slightly out of breath, a clutch of newspapers under his arm. 'Good news or bad?' He was eyeing his wife with the letter.
'Neither really,' she said, handing it to Geoffrey. 'I don’t understand; the postman delivered it while you were out. Can you believe it? It was posted in 1975.'
'You’re joking?'
He put on his glasses and studied the letter. Moira waited patiently, her eyes on Geoffrey’s face.
He looked pale and his hand shook slightly while holding the page. Probably still recovering from his jog to the newsagents, she thought. The long hours at the office, even bringing work home had made him look tired recently. But he wouldn’t listen to easing up. Geoffrey was a dyed-in-the-wool company man. He looked up from the letter,
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 8